Barbarossa
by gopadfoot
Summary: Barbarossa- a mysterious, unusual codename that is attached to an even more mysterious and unusual man. DI Lestrade gets roped in on the Barbarossa case, not knowing how involved he will get, and how the case will change his life and that of many others in the strangest of ways.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is the first chapter of a planned multi-chapter story, with a fresh plot, and very different then anything I've written before. Please let me know how you find it!

* * *

DI Gregory Lestrade straightened his rather rumpled clothing before he knocked on the door. He had been summoned to the inner sanctum of the Chief Superintendent, a place that was at once feared and reviled by the subordinates.

Greg felt only fear now, mostly because he had no clue what the summons portended. Had he inadvertently offended someone important with his blunt, sarcastic wit? Had he messed up a previous case badly, and it was only now discovered by the authorities that be? The Selwyn case, his most recent homicide investigation, had been successfully solved.

Perhaps he was called to recieve some well deserved praise, he thought sardonically. That was about as likely as being instantly promoted to the top position. The highest praise the Chief was capable of was the absence of criticism. He waited impatiently, running a hand nervously over his graying hair. When he heard his superior telling him to enter, he reluctantly opened the door.

There was a stranger sitting in the Chief Superintendent's chair. Sharp, beady eyes latched onto him, assessing him keenly. The man was obviously tall, had a sharp, long nose, and a perfectly pressed suit. He smiled suddenly, showing his teeth, and Greg knew that he was in the presence of a shark. Well, not all sharks attacked humans, did they? Unless they had a very good reason. Which this one probably had.

"Landers," the shark turned to the Chief, who was standing at the side of the desk, an intruder in his own territory. The Chief nodded, then quietly left the room, leaving Lestrade at the mercy of the predator.

"Gregory Robert Lestrade," the man said thoughtfully, not even bothering with pretend friendliness. "Married for fifteen years, one son, two daughters, promoted seven months ago to DI, frequents the Three Red Roses, drinks Guinness beer, but tolerates some Heineken at times, prefers fieldwork to desk work, has no ambition to climb to a higher rank, has been separated twice, and is a devoted West Ham fan. Have I gotten it right this far?"

Collecting his courage, the DI looked the man in the eye. "Yeah, and you don't need to go further. You made your point. Can I help you, or are you here just to show how much you know?"

The man smiled, not unpleasantly. "No beed for such bravado. I've been hearing things about you. You might yet be of use to us, if your need to bluster doesn't get in the way. Now, I'd like you to sit down, if you don't mind."

Greg complied, though not without leveling a belligerent look at the pompous man.

"In the course of your investigations, you have several times come across the name 'Barbarossa.' If I would ask you to summarize what you know about that name, how would you do it?"

The DI mulled over the name, and replied carefully. "One of our most confounding criminals. His name has come up in connection with fraud, money laundering, document forging, and some other mainly white-collar crimes. His identity is unknown at the moment, and attempts to gather more information have proven quite fruitless."

The shark studied him for several moments. "Why do you think that is?" he asked silkily.

Greg grew defensive. "I don't think it's fear to assume that it's for lack of trying on the part of NSY. I know I certainly did my share of trying to track him down. He's just too elusive, merely a shadow of a spectre at this point. We don't have much to go on," he glared at the man.

"Would you be prepared to continue trying, if you'd have something to go on?" the man asked, his expression suddenly losing its smugness and and turning somber.

"As long as it's fully approved," Greg said, a challenge in his voice. Something about this man was off, shady, even, and he wouldn't get caught so easily in his net. Then again, the Chief Superintendent did defer to him, which made the man all the more dangerous, in truth.

"Ah, yes, you won't be getting in trouble with the law. You might, however, be branching out to work for some other governmental agencies, too," the posh man said placatingly.

Greg felt a thrill running up his spine. He was being recruited! MI5? MI6? Interpol? All he know was that it was something larger, and darker, than the agency he presently worked for. A mixture of excitement and apprehension bubbled up inside him, even as he strained to keep his face blank.

"You have worked on some related cases, and you have done an...adequate job. You seem especially skilled at interviewing victims and other affected parties, drawing them out where others have failed. There's something about you that makes people-" the man paused, apparently searching for the right word- "trust."

Greg didn't reply. He was at a loss at what to say to that.

"I do think that you're trustworthy," the shadowy man continued. "Therefore, I am willing to entrust you with some sensitive information." He paused thoughtfully. "Naturally, that trust extends only until the time when you open your mouth at the wrong moment. Afterwards, there will not be any opportunity for repentance, if you get my drift."

The DI worked hard to suppress his shudder, but the blasted man in front of him only looked at him knowingly. "We know the identity of Barbarossa."

Greg waited.

"Barbarossa is a brilliant man, one of the very few capable of fooling even me. Nevertheless, I have come closest to understanding the way he operates, and predicting his next moves. Unfortunately, he understands me about as well as I understand him."

The man sighed, looking suddenly far too human and far too defeated. "I need to admit that the reason for that is mostly my fault, and a regrettable outcome of my greatest failure. I taught him many of the strategies he knows. You see, Lestrade, Barbarossa's true name is one I am very familiar with. He is none other than Sherlock Holmes, my little brother."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This story is obviously an AU. In this chapter, you get more of the background story, of why Sherlock is now a criminal instead of a consulting detective. More of the differences will be covered in the next few chapters, where others, like John and Molly, will be introduced in their unique roles.

* * *

Greg watched the back of the imposing government employee (who was probably more government than employee), feeling overwhelmed and slightly shell-shocked.

He had been recruited. He was now the official liaison between the Yard and whatever agencies that man worked for, in matters regarding Barbarossa. The DI left the Chiefs office and made his way to the cafeteria, ordered an espresso, and sipped on it slowly, while mentally remasticating the tale he had just heard.

 _There was once a curly-headed little boy, named Sherlock Holmes. He was an unusual little boy, extremely bright, and terribly impulsive. He was a whirlwind of energy, his brain running faster than he could keep up with, and continuously got himself into trouble._

 _His parents were nice people, ordinary people, who loved their little boy, and wanted what was best for him. Yet they had a hard time understanding him, understanding his unique mind and personality. The only one who came close to comprehending the boy was his older brother, his senior by seven years._

 _The older brother was brilliant, even more so than the little boy, and his mind was similarly unusual. He taught the younger child some techniques, on how to organize and most utilize his abilities. The younger one took to his lessons like a fish in water, and sharpened his observational powers over time. Yet his impulsivity only increased._

 _The little boy tended to drive away other people by blurting whatever was on his mind, usually deductions about others that tended to make them uncomfortable, or even angry. It came to the point where the boy was not only friendless, but actually despised. He grew up alone, with only the company of his older brother._

 _When the little boy was not so little any more, and had arrived at teenagehood, things began going downhill very fast. He was perpetually bored out of his mind, never finding sufficient stimulation in activities other people engaged in. He thought school very dull, and was barely in attendance. The subjects that bored him he tuned out completely, and he did self-study on those that interested him, and was light-years ahead of his classmates._

 _In contrast to the older brother, who did his best to fit into society, and plodded through the expected motions with a goal in mind, the younger one showed no interest in fitting in. Unsurprisingly, he was isolated and scorned, and although he pretended that it didn't bother him, his family noticed how much he was hurting._

 _The older brother believed that the teenager needed to suffer the consequences for his actions, and would in time learn to fend for himself. The older one threw himself into his studies, while simultaneously building connections for his future career. The younger one, left alone with his suffering, turned to the only relief he could find: stimulants that would calm him down, make him forget, and make him feel less alone._

 _By the time the older one caught on, it was too late. The teenager was addicted. Yet the older brother tried his best to make up for his greatest mistake. He followed his little brother into drug dens, and forced him into rehab._

 _The little brother didn't take kindly to the other's interference. He felt betrayed by the older one's neglect, and viewed his meddling as a an attempt to control, instead of a gesture of care and concern. Yet the older one persisted, and slowly gained back some of his brother's trust. The teen would start calling him when he was in trouble, and his brother always came through._

 _Their tentative truce was soon shattered. The conflict happened over a certain young man, barely a year older than Sherlock, who befriended the lost teen. Sherlock was eighteen, and glad of the nominal measure of independence his age granted him. He found a man he could actually befriend. Jim was unique. He had a mind more or less equal to Sherlock's own, and was the only one besides Mycroft who could truly relate to him._

 _Jim was a pleasant looking math student, who had met Sherlock during the latter's fraught attempt at attending university. The pair attended many of the same classes, Sherlock having had early entry. They spent hours in philosophical discussions, which often took a turn into the macabre. They shared interests such as the criminal psychology, the anatomy of a good murder, and other creepy subjects which made other students very wary of them._

 _Their favorite pastime wad discussing the best ways to do away with someone, without getting caught. It was all theoretical, of course. Sherlock, as an aspiring chemist, focused on different types of poisons and chemical agents, while Jim preferred more showy methods, such as hangings from flagpoles, or use of lots of explosives._

 _Mycroft met the Irishman several times, while checking up on Sherlock. The man was charming, friendly, brilliant, and made his skin crawl. He relished discussing his favorite subjects with Mycroft, while giving him slyly grins that nearly had Mycroft jumping out of his skin._

 _Mycroft made his disapproval of the friendship clear to his younger brother. Sherlock, unfortunately, was smitten by the man's charms, and took deep offense. The rift between the brothers grew in proportion to the deepening of the friendship._

 _Until, one day, Mycroft came to visit Sherlock, and couldn't find him. He looked, he searched, he mustered up all his resources, and still couldn't find a trace. His younger brother had disappeared- together with Jim Moriarty._


	3. Chapter 3

"Did you find him, in the end?" Greg asked breathlessly, having become so engrossed in the tale that he nearly forgot it was the shark doing the telling.

"Not quite. I was, and still am not, sure of his whereabouts. However, he has surfaced now and then, and left some messages. Some were addressed to me personally."

"Oh?" the DI asked curiously.

"It started out with what seemed like harmless little games. My computer would be hacked into, some of my files messed around with, nothing significant, and there would be some sort of message left. Mostly some kind of taunt about my efforts to find Sherlock. 'Keep looking,' and 'Can you see me now?' And even 'Catch me if you can.' Those little lines were always signed by the moniker of Barbarossa."

"Are you sure that was your brother?" Greg asked bravely.

"Definitely. You see, when my brother was younger, he aspired to become a pirate. He had a fascination for all things related to piracy. He was particularly interested in the famous pirate Barbarossa, who was employed by the Ottoman Empire. He even named our dog after him, calling him by the English version, Redbeard. Nobody else could have known this about him."

"What about his friend, Moriarty? Were they working together? Are they still in touch?" the DI asked curiously. He was determined to get to the bottom of this case, and not only because it was one of the most fascinating cases of his career.

The government agent leaned back in his chair, and began tapping his umbrella on the floor, while frowning in thought. "It's complicated," he sighed.

"You see, at first it definitely seemed so. We began getting reports from different government agencies about hackers who hacked into their systems, and did nothing more than just cause chaos. They couldn't figure out what the hackers' goal was. They didn't seem to be after specific information or access.

"Then there were several break-ins in government buildings, major banks, and even a prison once. The modus operandi was always the same. Some items were destroyed, some furniture smashed, but nothing of significance was taken. There was always a message left, scribbled on the wall, or on the ceiling, or anywhere where it would be easily seen.

"The messages were very similar to the ones left on my computer, only in plural form. 'Can you get us?' 'Where's Waldo?' 'Catch us if you can, we're the gingerbread men.' Always childish, and always taunting."

"Which is exactly your brother's style," Greg couldn't resist. Then he added, in sincere confusion, "But why? What did they gain from that?"

Mycroft Holmes looked at Greg with something resembling sadness, which looked pretty strange on the man. "Sherlock was always far too clever for his own good. I didn't always realize it, which is a pity. I might have been able to do more, if I had. The main thing he craves is stimulation. He considers boredom his greatest enemy.

"Unlike some other geniuses, he was never content with academic studies. He needed puzzles to keep his brain occupied. When he (mostly) outgrew his pirate stage, he dreamed of becoming a detective and solving crimes. He longed for the thrill of putting the pieces together, and then the adrenalin rush of chasing the perpetrator. Even in his younger years, he would avidly follow the crime in the news, attempting to solve them himself."

"It seems he would have made a good detective," Greg mused quietly.

"Perhaps. Yet he would never have worked as a traditional detective. He was always far too impulsive, and was never one to be constrained by rules and regulations. A regular job with the police would have felt like a jail sentence to him. Additionally," Mycroft paused and cleared his throat, "he has always had some... social issues."

"I gather he doesn't care much for social niceties?" the DI quirked an eyebrow.

Mycroft chuckled humourlessly, a terrifying sound. "Correct. He insults people callously, deduced all their secrets and then exposes them in public, has no manners whatsoever, and is usually awfully rude, and even cruel at times. In fact, as a teenager, he was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as being a sociopath. Instead of being offended, he took pride in the label, and quickly took to calling himself a 'high-functioning sociopath.' So you see, he could never have held a traditional job."

"What do you think drove him to a life of crime?" Lestrade asked cautiously.

Mycroft's face was carefully blank as he answered. "In my opinion, Moriarty gave him a way out. He was feeling especially vulnerable, being away by himself at University, and never fitting in. He was scorned by all for being different, which consequently caused him to lash out at others, driving them away even further.

"Additionally, he was feeling the burden of deciding his future. His classes were mostly boring him, and he had no interest in a career in the field he studied. His dream of becoming a detective seemed impractical, and on top of all of that, he was still occasionally falling back into his old bad habits, which didn't help his mental stability."

"So his 'friend' gave him a way out, by giving him something to keep him stimulated and happy, while at the same time removing himself from a society that hated him," Greg said thoughtfully, beginning to understand.

Mycroft gazed at him penetratingly. "Yes, I do think you'll do," he said, as if to himself. "Sherlock got to have the stimulation of figuring out puzzles. Only it wasn't about how to solve a crime, it was about the best way to perpetrate them."

Lestrade shook his head in sympathy. "Poor boy," he said softly.

Mycroft glared at him harshly. "Do not forget, Detective Inspector, that this 'boy' you speak of is a criminal, and it's your duty to catch him."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Isn't that 'criminal' also your brother? Can you feel no sympathy for him?" he retorted bluntly, straightening his back.

"The fact that he is my brother has no bearing on the matter," the government agent answered frigidly, the words falling from his mouth like chips of ice. "You might say I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. I have a duty to my country, just as you do."

Greg was almost intimidated. Almost. The man before him now was the quintessential image of a heartless monster, one who was perfectly capable of sacrificing family on the altar of his career. He should have been frightened out of his wits.

Yet he wasn't. He couldn't be frightened of the man who had just spoken of his little brother, the young child with the curly hair who dreamed of being a pirate, the man who had told him all of that with unmistakable regret in his eyes.


End file.
